Mash up Hemingway and Cosmopolitan magazine and what do you get? McSweeney's has the answer:

And you silently tipped the ice-cube down his shirt. The ice-cube was cold. His body was hot. The cold ice-cube felt good inside his shirt. He didn't feel hot. The sun began to beat down on the man, and the shirt, and the ice. The ice-cube began to melt. It was not a bad feeling. It was a tingly feeling.

There's more at the link — James Joyce (who recommends "little lace underthings most scrumsy, and little black dress allwhimsy, for the dinner, the stately sloshingdinner date") and Nabokov (who's into sexting, it turns out) included.